


4:12

by imagining_supernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Reader, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Reader (Artist), Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Switchfoot, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 12:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11714499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagining_supernatural/pseuds/imagining_supernatural
Summary: You start to feel down, like life is a little off and doesn't make sense, but one morning, Dean comes into your room and helps you realize that even if life doesn't make sense, it doesn't mean that life isn't good.





	4:12

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Horrible summary. Sorry. Anyway, this fic is based off of the song "4:12" by Switchfoot and the prompt "But that's my favorite one!"

          When is a tree not a tree? When it’s a splotch of paint on a canvas. You hadn’t actually meant to paint a tree. It just kinda happened. Life is funny that way. It just kinda happens. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes you sleep through the night and sometimes you wake up in the wee hours of morning and can’t get back to sleep. So you paint in a futile attempt to organize the mush of voices, memories, and thoughts that invade your every waking moment.

          “Dude, how long have you been awake?”

          Dean’s voice nearly made you jump out of your skin. He mumbled an apology while he ran his fingers through his bed-mussed hair and leaned against your door jamb.

          “What time is it?” You couldn’t rightly answer his question since you’d kind of lost track of time while painting your tree that wasn’t a tree and wasn’t actually meant to be a tree.

          “Almost nine. And I know that canvas was blank last night so…”

          “Um.” You shook your head and tried to reconcile the numbers in your head. “Five hours? I dunno. I woke up around four.”

          “Right. Because four in the morning is tree-painting time. How could I forget?” Dean ambled into your room and settled himself on your bed, pushing your pillows against the wall and lounging back. “When was the last time you got a good night’s sleep?”

          “I’m a hunter, so… probably when I was eleven?”

          You meant it as a joke, but Dean knew you too well. “I’m serious, Y/N. You’re a hunter, and we have a safe place to sleep every night. You need your sleep if you’re gonna be able to fight.”

          “I know.” With a heavy sigh, you sat on your bed and let Dean pull you back into his chest. “I just can’t get it out of my head long enough to sleep.”

          “It?”

          “Life. It doesn’t make sense on a good day, then you add a sleep-deprived, artist’s brain with insomnia to the mix and four a.m. rolls around every day and suddenly I just understand it even less.” A glance at the ever growing pile of canvases against your wall showed your attempts to understand everything. You pushed away from Dean and walked over, flipping through the canvases. “I should probably get rid of some of these. They aren’t doing much good here.”

          Dean came over and plucked one of the smaller canvases from the stack. “Why’d you paint this one?”

          “We’d just gotten done with that one hunt in Missoula and I was trying to capture how that mother must have felt when we brought her daughter back to her.” You tilted your head and regarded the splatter of pastel colors that slightly resembled a flower. “But it’s just a flower.”

          “It’s hopeful,” Dean muttered.

          You decided to let his critique of your work slide. Who knew that Dean Winchester could see something like hope in a flower? Instead, you grabbed another canvas and held it up. “And this one came out of our hunt in Tallahassee when we were too late to save that family.”

          All that came out of that early-morning painting daze was a vast, desolate landscape.

          “I really need to get rid of these,” you mumbled, starting to sort through the dozens of paint-ridden canvases. While you put most of the paintings in a pile to get rid of, Dean took his time perusing your artwork.

          “Wait! Not that one,” Dean exclaimed, reaching out to grab the medium sized canvas that held bright streaks of abstract color.

          “It’s just a painting, Dean.” It’s not like it was anything special. It was all material and didn’t matter in the long run.

          “But that’s my favorite one,” he countered, setting the painting on an empty easel and stepping back to regard it.

          Curious, especially after his hopeful comment, you stepped up beside him and eyed the picture. “Why?”

          “Because—“ he cut off and a pink blush tinged his cheeks.

          “What is it?” This time you could barely whisper. Whatever his reason, Dean really felt something for this painting. Something you had created had also created an emotional link in Dean Winchester. Sure, nothing in the world made sense, and nothing would last. But just knowing that you’d managed to touch Dean like that made everything seem a little brighter.

          “It’s my favorite because you painted us three, right? You, me, and Sam?”

          “I—“ This time it was your turn to cut off and think about your answer. He was right, of course. You’d tried to capture the essence of your souls. After the hunt with the soul-devouring monster, you’d wondered what your soul would look like. “How did you know?”

          He shrugged. “I’d recognize us anywhere.”

          If Dean could see you and Sam from a couple of dark paint splotches on a canvas, then maybe it didn’t matter that the world was so nonsensical. Maybe all that mattered was how you saw the world. As long as you could still see how the colors bleed into shapes and sounds, maybe you could get through this life.


End file.
